


riddle me this

by fightfortherightsofhouseelves



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Football player!Ginny, Harry's POV, Hinny, Muggle AU, Mystery, NSFW, Special Agent!Harry, one night stand that leads to more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 16:24:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17348555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightfortherightsofhouseelves/pseuds/fightfortherightsofhouseelves
Summary: Amidst an undercover mission, Special Agent Harry James Potter stumbles upon a witty Liverpool striker with a deadly sharp tongue, and he enjoys every last bit of their unplanned encounter.





	riddle me this

**Author's Note:**

> This is me writing Hinny NSFW at the rate of one per year lol. Enjoy the hotstuff!

My burner mobile’s buzzing. Guess I do have a lead. Bloody Robards, I told him I did have something, didn’t I? My guy’s never let me down, never. Still, gotta play it safe. Play it cool. I’m undercover for now, I am, even if just for a little while longer, until this case is solved at least. It’ll be different once I go on the surface again, but for now…They didn’t lie when they said once you go into MI6, you never get out while you’re still breathing.

As expected, my CI gave me what I needed. Seems like the person I’m looking for is a regular of popular dating sites. Smart, cheap, clean. One can have thousand different aliases, get in without paying, chat up any unsuspecting victim or set a date with one’s money-laundering, gun-slinging, dirty friends, and do all of the above from the comfort of one’s safe house. Brilliant. Alright, Potter, let’s see if you can still score without flexing your muscles oh-so-subtly when a woman is looking. Let’s see if you’ve still got that legendary Potter charm up your sleeve, because this MI6 No. Five Most Wanted is, surprise-surprise, a beautiful woman. I added the beautiful part because it made everything more espionage-y, but a woman she is. To work, then.

I log in with an alias, something that won’t hint to me, a name that can’t possibly connect me to anything. Roonil Wazlib. Nice, believable, the kind of name you have to come up with in a matter of milliseconds when you take on the job of special agent.

Now comes the hard part - spreading my little spider web and waiting for the right one to fall in it. You see, the woman I’m looking for is what some might call a frame artist, and what I mean by that is that she frames people for a living and does so beautifully. The way she operates is that she engages in relationships with women, then steals their identities in order to frame men she has a bone to pick with. Her or her clients, I must admit I haven’t established if she operates by her own free will or if she’s paid to do so. Or both, usually it’s both.

Do you know how many images MI6 has in its database? And fingerprints associated with them? Over fifty million, that’s how many. Impressive? Yeah, I’d say so. Only that this particular woman does not fit any one of them. Only that this particular woman seems to somehow steal the prints of the original possessors of the identities she takes as well. How? Not a clue, but with a bit of luck I might find out.

I laid the groundwork, I know the profile she’s interested in. Big pharma boss, filthy rich, has affairs with his assistants. So I write something really snotty and distasteful like “I’ll pay for anything as long as you’re worth it.” Age - I’ll settle for forty-something, London based, “whiskey in my suit and tie” as a hobby. And now I wait.

Soon enough my screen lights up.

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** Are you seriously as much of a berk as your bio says you are?

Huh? Who’s this? Doesn’t matter, I’ll ignore it.

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** What? Not used to being intimidated, Mr Hotshot?

Erm - wait, what? I mean, yeah, definitely I’m not, but who do you think you are calling me out on the internet?

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** I bet you’re the kind of bloke that bosses women around and treats them like shit. You get off on that, don’t you?

Now I know all the hard years of training should prevent me from biting and engaging, but bloody buggering hell this person’s getting on my nerves.

 **Roonil Wazlib:** Sore from a recent break-up, are we?

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** And how exactly did you arrive at this conclusion? Or am I the first woman to call you out and you just had to find a plausible enough excuse to shift the blame from yourself?

So at least she’s a woman. Or so she says.

 **Roonil Wazlib:** Not at all. It’s just not that common to encounter someone articulate around here. Or rather be gratuitously attacked by one.

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** First, you’re asking for it. Second, maybe I’m just not good with real life interactions.

 **Roonil Wazlib:** Or with lies. You’re really not a good liar  ;)

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** And you’re not a good man

 **Roonil Wazlib:** Never claimed I was one

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** So, Smartass, what are you looking for in this shithole?

 **Roonil Wazlib:** A woman

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** Course you are...When I thought we could be friends, but there you go, being disgusting again

Bloody hell. Alright, Potter, you need to keep your calm. Do not respond. I repeat, do not -

 **Roonil Wazlib:** My humble apologies. Could I ever make up for it?

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** Keep talking and I’ll think about it

Bugger. Don’t you dare, Potter. Don’t even think about it.

Shit, I’m thinking about it. Even though Robards is a right prick and we had such a row I wanted to put his head through a wall, I’m still on a mission.

But it’s not everyday I get to chat up a woman of phenomenal  wit, though…

Who I don’t even know is a woman. Should I take her word because she said so? Might as well take the elevator on a special mission and risk getting caught in it.

Here lies Harry James Potter, seduced by a woman on the internet - that’s what they’ll write on my plaque if I don’t exit this conversation right now.

Although it’s true I haven't  gone out with someone in a long while or even taken a night off…

This is bloody impossible, it’s like Sophie’s choice. Use your head, Potter, past evidence suggests that you possess one.

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** Ding-dong still there?

 **Roonil Wazlib:** Yes

 **Roonil Wazlib:** Nice handle

E **verythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** Thanks. Yours is stupid though

 **Roonil Wazlib:** We already went through this. Gratuitously attacking a person is tacky and doesn’t suit you at all

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** Don’t tell me you have feelings

 **Roonil Wazlib:** Didn’t say that. Stone cold on the inside

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** I bet you’re a soft baby

 **Roonil Wazlib:** I am insulted and I beg to differ

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** Bring it on, momma’s boy. Or even better, come out and buy me a drink. Ice cold

Dang, should’ve seen it coming. If this is my lead, there’s no way I’m allowing her to escape now that I’ve spiked up her interest.

 **Roonil Wazlib:** Why don’t you show your face first? Why should I trust you’re a poor recently dumped woman looking for a one night stand - like you want to appear, and not a vicious predator?

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** LOL. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine

Guess the time has come for a little hand to hand combat. Sexy. And if she’s not the frame artist, I’ve still got a nice date on my hands. The way I see it, it’s a win win.

Of course I’m aware I’m talking myself into what could very well be a fiasco, but what’s life without a bit of risk? Or wit, and this woman’s got enough to drag me out of my lair and into the open. Who knew my Achilles’ heel was wit and a smart mouth?

 **Roonil Wazlib:** There’s a pub down on Abbey Road. Meet me there

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** Yeah, alright, Hotshot. Try anything funny and I’ll whip your ass

 **Roonil Wazlib:** Hot

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** There you go again…

 **Roonil Wazlib:** You have to admit, it’s part of my charm

 **EverythingsPossibleIfYouveGotEnoughNerve:** Yeah, whatever. Be there in fifteen

And she accused me of bossing people around. This is getting more interesting by the minute.

I wipe the pathetic smirk off my face because I’m a trained and distinguished agent of the British intelligence services, gear up because same reason, brush my teeth because in spite of all evidence to the contrary I am not a disgusting man, and give up on my hair because a lifetime of trial and error have taught me that it’s no use.

I strut down the street because, let’s face it, this did go rather smoothly. By this time tomorrow, I’ll have Robards writing me a heartfelt apology which I will humbly accept. No, seriously, we’ve been tracking this woman down for years and I had to groom my guy to hand over this information to me for six months. Six months since I couldn’t contact family or friends for fear that I might blow the cover. Six months since I had to go back to that crappy apartment day after day, without a lead to go by. But all this ends tonight, I can feel it.

I draw in a deep breath before I open the door to the pub. The owner, the regulars, they’re all our assets. I know them well, they’re my people, so I use this location whenever I need to meet an informant without fearing I might walk into a trap. Of course, there’s always the possibility, but it’s better to shrink it as much as you can.

I crack the door open eagerly and...there’s no one inside that’d fit the profile. Just the regulars, and a Liverpool football player I’ve seen today on TV, when they played Chelsea. It was one bloody bad game for Liverpool, no wonder she looks so sour.

I pull my phone from the back pocket and punch the security code. Logging back in on the dating website, I rapidly send her a text and scan the room to see who’ll answer.

What the - ? It’s the Liverpool player? But how? My CI said the woman we’re after was rather busy with a murder followed by some money laundering today. She can’t have also played striker in a game of football, right?

The Liverpool woman, her gaze is on me. Slowly, she draws up her phone from the table and shakes it a bit to show me that she knows it’s me she’s been chatting with. Then winks, and it’s a bloody beautiful image. Long ginger hair, clusters of freckles spread all over, and can strike a ball hard enough to crack my skull open. I mean, why the hell not.

So I take a seat, drag the chair with the toe of my boot and drop in it. She’s already had a drink, I can see the empty glass pushed to the edge of the table, ice still inside so it means she’s just finished.

“You don’t look like I thought you would,” Ginger says, her lips puckered into an impish smile.

“But you look exactly like I thought you would,” I volley, knowing full well it’ll get her riled up.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

As predicted, she huffs and I grin, raising two fingers up - my signal for the bartender to send over a cold one.

“So,” I say and take a healthy swig, “What’s a Super League player doing on a dating site? Other than harassing people, I mean.”

She scowls and it’s the cutest thing I’ve seen in months. Did I think “cute”? This woman may be dangerous after all, playing with my mind and such.

“If you know who I am, then you know that I sucked today,” she pouts, toying with her empty drink.

“Your team was worse.”

“I reckon that should soothe me, but it doesn’t.” Her eyes linger over me for a moment, lighting up, but next second her face is once again impassive. Impressive.

“So I was right and you’ve recently been dumped,” I quirk an eyebrow, smug as I can.

She smiles, but it doesn’t extend to her deep brown eyes, “You’re an arse.”

I snort, obviously taken by surprise. Witty in real life as well, isn’t she.

“That too, but it doesn’t make what I said less true.” I take a moment to analyse her features, her every reaction to each of my actions. I like how we play, the two of us, like each move demands a counter-move. “So? Care to share what happened?”

She stirs her drink once, twice, “No. You didn’t even give me one thing about you.”

“Such as?”

“Such as what’s your career option?” Her gaze is locked with mine and it’s hard to break away. It’s like a spell, so intense and burning, that’s drawing me to her.

“I handle sensitive matters and that’s more than I can say.” That’s the usual response we’re taught to give. No specifics, keep your tone neutral. Don’t blow your cover.

“Not even your name?” She leans in over the table, closing in on me as though she knows what I’m thinking, that her presence is disruptive.

“No.” No specifics, tone neutral.

She drops right back, crosses her arms over her chest, “Alright then, I’ll just call you James.”

I freeze, a breath escaping my lips. It’s impossible - how can she know? With steady hands, I readjust my glasses and run a hand through the mess that is my hair, buying time.

A hearty laugh rolls up her throat, her eyes shut as she laughs with gusto. “Like James Bond? Though I see I’ve hit the nail on the head and I didn’t even try.” Ginny - that’s her name, it’s Ginny Weasley, now I remember - continues to laugh until it turns into a giggle. I, on the other hand, choose to sit in dignified silence.

“He was a bad loser,” Ginny speaks again, then adds, noticing the confused look I must be wearing, “The guy I broke up with. He had to be right all the time, he always knew better, made me feel like I couldn’t have a mind of my own,” she pauses briefly, eyes transfixed somewhere in the past, “So here I am, drinking myself silly with a wanna-be special agent who can’t even disguise his name.”

“Ouch,” I scornfully spit out. Maybe I’m a bad loser too.

“You don’t like it when I’m on top, do you?” She smirks but it melts into a scowl when she takes note of my grin at the little remark. “I meant on top of the game.” Ginny waggles her index finger at me, flips her long red sheath of hair over her shoulder. Bloody hell, how do I find everything she does unbearably sexy? Solitude must’ve addled my brains.

“Alright then, 007, it’s your turn to tell me something. Come one now, I’m listening.” Her brow is raised, a blazing look about her face, daring me, provoking me. My mind’s made up, I reckon it’s been since the beginning.

I smirk, one hand ruffling the hair on the back of my head as the other sets the empty bottle on the table, “What I can tell you is that I’ll be walking you home by the end of the night.”

Ginny scans me amusedly, still there’s a mischievous sparkle in her eye that she can’t hide fast enough.

“How’re you so confident it’s going to happen?” Her tone is even, her features arranged as to not hint at her real feelings. She’s very good, I have to give her that. She’d even do brilliantly on the task force if she ever gives up playing ball.

“I dared figure once you’re in with Liverpool, you’ll never walk alone.”

A loud snort and she shakes her head, “Wow, you’re lucky I fall for bad humour.” She raises herself, sets a couple of notes and coins on the table, settles a bag on her shoulder, all with the utmost confidence. Then her eyes are on me once again, burning, hungry, and Ginny says, “But we’re going to your place tonight, not mine. Lead the way, James Bond.”

I gulp, then grin. By this point, I don’t even care if it’s a well laid trap. I volunteer to fall into it if it means being able to hold this woman for a moment, for a blissful moment. I’m a sappy fool.

The five minute walk to the apartment I’ve been living in the past half year passes in silence and sideways glances. Her sneakers shuffle in tandem with the loud steps of my boots, her long legs lean with hours of training hugged by black skinny jeans, a jumper tied loosely over her middle. She keeps her little mouth shut tightly, one delicious freckle reigning over a plump upper lip, as her eyes dart back and forth over my figure whenever she thinks I’m not paying attention. Thing is, I’m always paying attention.

I turn the key in the rusty old lock twice and the door creaks as I push it open. I gesture for her to come inside, make herself at home, all the polite cock and bull I heard one’s supposed to deliver when one’s playing host. Cautious, she takes off her shoes and pads behind me, still suspicious of my motives, still not letting her guard down.

I leave her waiting for me on the living room couch as I pour wine into the only two glasses I manage to find. Never really used the kitchen here, don’t know where most of the things are. Of course, I take the chance to punch a couple of buttons and disable all security cameras and gear that might offer my colleagues a little sneak peak into certain fun activities which, if my lucky stars keep shining, are about to unfold. Though nobody’s supposed to know about this as I am presumably deep on a mission tonight. Well, I didn’t say I’m not to resume following my lead later, but priorities first.

Funny how some priorities change when there’s a dash of wit involved, I laugh to myself.

“Lovely bachelor cave,” Ginny remarks as she accepts the glass of white wine and takes a tentative sip.

I gesture one hand vaguely, “It’s more or less temporary.”

Dragging one foot under her, Ginny maneuvers so she looks me square in the eye and taunts, “Is this where you bring all the women you pick up on the internet?”

“This was fun in writing, but now - eh, not anymore.”

She bites her lower lip, leans in and whispers, “What would you define as fun, mysterious man?”

Even though I am aware that Ginny Weasley knows exactly what she’s doing (really, I’m not exactly trying to conceal my physical reactions either), I still fall for it, if only for a bit. So that would account for the tomato red blush currently creeping up the back of my neck.

“I’ve got a full list,” I mostly bark, my voice hoarse.

Her eyebrows raise and she takes a long sip of wine, then puckers up, rubbing a finger over the contours of her lips to wipe at the dampness. Slowly, torturously slow, her eyes chart a map of my chest, my arms, my face - a well exercised move, I assume.

She grabs my arm mid-sip and, before I can say anything, before I can even think, she kisses me. Short and heavy. The kind of kiss that feels more like an electrical shock, short circuiting my brain and turning my legs to jelly.

“Sharing is caring, I heard,” Ginny continues our discussion as if nothing happened. The cheek of her. Guess this is my cue to stop acting the gentleman. Buckle up, Miss, it’s showtime.

I lean back in and capture her lips, her face cupped between my calloused palms. As she reciprocates and the snog turns into a session, hands start to roam. Toying with the hem of a shirt, then sneaking under it, touching, caressing, clawing at heated skin and shredding clothes in their way. I lightly press her shoulder and she lays on her back, allowing access to a creamy neck and burning pulse point. I linger there, nursing it, sucking at it, while her hands tangle into my hair, nails scraping at my scalp. If it weren’t for years of training in the art of restricting the self, I’d be purring like a kitten right about now.

Suddenly, her arm flexes, snatching the wine bottle from the coffee table. Ginny draws in a short breath, then pours its contents down her chest, shivers and fills her gaze with so much dare and defiance, my world spins and my balance disappears.

“Reckon you might still be thirsty,” she smirks, chuffed, brown eyes never leaving mine.

I don’t remember much from that particular moment, but somehow her bra flies and I’m holding her, strong toned legs wrapped around my waist. I’m holding her against the wall of the bedroom, kissing my way down her chest, spending time on every little freckle spread on her skin. I lift her arms and hold them in a steady grip, pressing two delicate wrists together as my mouth closes over one light pink nipple. And she moans, moans through gritted teeth because she’s proud, and strong, and won’t lose herself so easily.

“It’s Harry,” I breathe into her ear, nibble behind it.

She exhales, “What?”

“My name. It’s Harry James, but lose the James. It’ll only sound like you’re shagging my father and I draw a line there,” I jest, giving her time to recover. I’m a greedy bloke, I want all of her, want her present so I can watch her unfold.

Ginger eyebrow quirked, she tips her forehead to mine, “We’ll see if there’s reason for your name to come up.”

I grin and, before diving in to recapture her lips, I volley my reply, “Oh, I’ll do my best to ensure it does.”

As soon as her back hits the bed, she swerves and pins me under her. I know I’ve said it before, but - impressive. Hands in my hair again - this woman is making a right mess of me, she sucks and nibbles down the stubble on my jaw, down my neck, and lingers only to go back again. The way she kisses me, it’s fire and poison, and I close my eyes and wrap my arms around her. I run an open palm up and down her spine, feeling, enjoying the way her body is reacting to mine. Gently, I tug at her bottoms and she lifts on her knees, freeing space for me to undress her properly. Out of her skinny jeans, her blue lace knickers follow, down her thighs, down her knees, and over her ankles.

My fingers sneak up her parted legs and bury deep inside as she savagely bites her lips, leveraging her weight on her knees, pushing them hard into the mattress, her fingers closing over my shoulder, nails clawing mercilessly at my flesh. Fingertips work their rhythm within, alternating lithe with fast, intense strokes, clockwise then reverse. Ginny throws her head back, long, red hair caressing the sheets, her naked chest rising and falling as she pants.

I pump in and out, in and out, grit my teeth as her nails dig at my nape, pull at my hair. Fiercely, almost violently, her eyelids close shut as five letters mold into syllables to crawl up her throat and escape with a booming echo. “Harry,” she yells, hoarse, sensual, and entirely undone.

A delighted smirk spreads over my face as I savor my little victory. “Smug bastard,” she hisses, but I have a mind to make up for it.

I take her in my arms gingerly, she’s so petite, watch the lines and twirls of freckles rained over her body. She’s beautiful with heavy lashes covering her deep brown eyes, mouth slightly open, string of pearly teeth showing. Her head laid on fluffy pillows, I place her thighs over my shoulder and lower myself, forehead on her pelvis. It’s honey, thick and sweet, and I take my time, listen as her moans grow in intensity and pace. I stop only when she screams my name again, begging me, pleading with me.

Up on my knees, I lick my lips to taste her again, drunk on the feeling, on the flavour. Inhaling and exhaling to steady the beating of my heart, a little trick of my trade, I position myself between the moisture of her legs and, with a brief nod from her, I smoothly, gently slide inside.

One, two, three thrusts and Ginny wraps herself around me, drawing me to her chest, heartbeat against heartbeat.

“Don’t stop,” she moans in my ear and I’ve never been happier to obey. It’s blissful oblivion in a way I’ve never felt it before. I’ve never surrendered myself to someone as I do now to her, her thumbs running circles over my back where her nails clawed and scraped minutes before. She kisses my lips, then bites, then once again she nurses them, her tongue soothing where they turn swollen.

Pressing my mouth to hers, I feel my mind blacken as I dive deep beneath cold waters. I’m there, riding that sweet, thrilling wave, dragging her with me with one final thrust. Then we collapse, all sound melting into unwavering silence. The world, as I have known it, has ended. From the instant I open my eyes again, Ginny Weasley will forever be a part of it.

I prolong the dreaded moment as much as I can, terrified I’ll have to open my eyes and look into hers, look into the eyes of the woman who now owns my soul. So I keep them squeezed shut until I hear even breathing, take it as sign that she’s succumbed to sleep.

Silently, I roll out of bed, dress, and tiptoe to my computer, check the carefully laid spiderweb for any treachery and evil.

“Must be my night,” I grin and walk out, gun secured in its place.

I return with the first rays of sun, throw my sweat drenched clothes on the floor before slipping beneath the covers of the bed I left hours ago. As expected, it’s long since empty so I stretch my fatigued limbs, cover most of the mattress in length and width. The tips of my fingers, they run across a piece of paper hidden under one of the pillows. With heavy eyes, I lift it up so I can read the letters in the pale light of the dawn.

 

 _Don’t keep me waiting, Harry James_ , it says, followed by an address scribbled on its back: Birkenhead, Merseyside, North West England.

 

All my instincts are buzzing, telling me not to go. Besotted fools are the ever easy targets for criminals, that’s one of the most basic rules. Ah, rules. Bugger the rules.

This is how I find myself, less than twelve hours later, turning up at the address still dressed in MI6 black - today I briefed the boss, a small and rarely encountered break from the undercover life. Don’t judge me, we’re pretty formal at the office and if after everything I’ve told you, you still assume that I had the patience to go home and change first, then you haven’t been following properly.

Knock-knock, I rap my knuckles over the wooden surface of the door, the other hand enclosed over the SIG pistol I always keep strapped to the office suit.

A hurricane of red hair attacks from behind it, dragging me in by my tie. If she plans on murdering me later, I’m alright with that, but right now? We have much, so much more to find out about each other, Ginny Weasley and I.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Harry's usual sass turned him into a bit of an arse in this universe, but it was all foreplay rather than gross manners hehe :)  
> Talk to me here or on tumblr (@fightfortherightsofhouseelves) and hope you enjoyed!


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